


Biphobic, Acephobic Douchebagels

by bloodscout



Series: The Friends of Asexuals, Bisexuals and other Crap [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Asexuality Spectrum, Asexy April, M/M, Queerplatonic Relationships, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:56:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/pseuds/bloodscout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Leave those biphobic, acephobic douchebagels.”</p><p>“And what?” Enjolras questions, directing his rage towards Courfeyrac now. “Give up on the cause? Let those fuckers get away with paying us out like that?”</p><p>Combeferre simply raises his eyebrows. “Douchebagels,” He mutters. “Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Or, the one where Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac start a university queer collective. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Biphobic, Acephobic Douchebagels

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my asexy April 24 fics in 24 hours challenge. Based in part off of 148km’s "Glitterbombs of Angry Queers" and SweetPollyOliver's Queer Advocacy Group AU. Thanks to Tash for sitting there while I was writing this

_Les Amis de l’ABC_ began half way through Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s first year of university, after the three left their university’s Gay Collective meeting. Enjolras was fuming, his face red, and protruding shoulder blades drawn almost next to one another. The blonde let out a frustrated noise in the middle of the courtyard, like the whistle of an overheated kettle. Combeferre stopped the three of them, gripping onto Enjolras’ shoulders. When he was facing the other man, he dug his thumbs into the bunched muscle, separating them until Enjolras was forced to relax. The green eyes that met his were still steely, but calmer now.

 

“This isn’t going to help, Enjolras.” Combeferre said. By now he knew not to tell Enjolras to calm down. “Stewing over it won’t fix anything.”

 

“So what,” Enjolras growled through gritted teeth, shaking Combeferre’s hands off of his shoulders. “do you want me to _do_.”

 

Combeferre bit his lip, unsure of how to answer.

 

“Leave those biphobic, acephobic douchebagels.”

 

“And what?” Enjolras questions, directing his rage towards Courfeyrac now. “Give up on the cause? Let those fuckers get away with paying us out like that?”

 

Combeferre simply raises his eyebrows, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Douchebagels,” He mutters. “Okay.”

 

Courfeyrac shrugs, acting for all the world as if the fact that his two friends completely doubt him doesn’t bother him. “I don’t know, make a separate collective. Something that recognises people other than cis, white, upper-class gay men.”

 

Enjolras didn’t want to admit that is sounded like a good idea. He frowned. “We’ll never get that through the red tape.” He told Courfeyrac, staring at the place where his shoes pressed against the grass.

 

Courfeyrac shrugs again. “Didn’t say it had to be a university group, now, did I?”

 

Combeferre rolls the thought around in his mouth, tonguing at his cheek. “I think it could work.”

 

“Not without a place to hold it.” Enjolras bites out.

 

Courfeyrac moves to respond, but he seemed stumped. Comebeferre, however, had an idea. “The chess society rents out the back of a café for their tournaments. I don’t see why we couldn’t. To be perfectly honest, money _isn’t_ an obstacle.”

 

Enjolras stares at Combeferre for a moment, mentally interrogating him. Conbeferre doesn’t wilt under the scrutiny. His gaze is broken by Courfeyrac pulling Enjolras into his chest in an attempt to convince him. Strong arms wrap around the blonde’s still skinny shoulders, and his head is tucked under Courfeyrac’s chin. “It’s going to work, babe.” Courfeyrac insists. Enjolras frowns against Courfeyrac’s throat, half out of residual pessimism, (‘ _realism_ ’, he would insist, and loudly) and half out of petulance at being a whole head shorter than his friend.

 

Courfeyrac clutches tigheter again, trying to squeeze out his friend’s misgivings like a toothpaste tube of negativity. Enjolras groans, his ribs compressing into his lungs.

 

“Fine.” He finally grits out, but not without the appropriate modicum of resentment. “Fine, we’ll try.”

 

Courfeyrac lets go, yanking his friend up to place a wet kiss on his lips, and promptly leaps backwards, cartwheeling across the grass.

 

Combeferre squints through his glasses. “Okay.” He says, though is, for the most part, unphased.

 

Enjolras nods in agreement. “Yes, precisely.”

 

 

~~~

 

 _Les Amis de l’ABC_ officially stood for “Les Amis de l’Avenir, le Bonheur et la Compréhension”, but Courfeyrac had declared that that was much too stuffy, and decided that he would refer to it as “Friends of Asexuals, the Bisexuals, and other Crap” from thereon in. Enjolras initially riled against the use of English, and the fact that only two demographics were actually represented in the title, but Courfeyrac was his best friend, and more like a leprechaun than an actual human, so he begrudgingly allowed it.

 

Enjolras didn’t think anyone would join the group, but the day after they had put the posters around the school, Enjolras had five emails from people expressing their interest.

 

Now, almost a year after their founding, Enjolras considered the members of _Les Amis de l’ABC_ to be his closest friends. That day, their meeting had gone overtime, but everyone was content to stay in the back room of the Musain regardless. They were all in good company, and had good wine.

 

The doors flung open then, and Enjolras looked up from his papers to see Grantaire. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his shirt stained, but he didn’t seem to be drunk. His heart rate picked up, and he let his jaw set into a grimace. The dark haired man made his way to the set next to Enjolras’.

 

“You missed the meeting.” Enjolras tells him.

 

Grantaire is a strange specimen, Enjolras notes. He rarely, if ever turns up to meetings on time, and is content to sit as close to Enjolras as possible, just to disagree with every word he says. Grantaire has no hope for the queer community, no hope for the causes Enjolras speaks of, and, apparently, no hope for himself. Enjolras feels his blood boil at the very sight of Grantaire, his shoulders tensing in anticipation of a fight. The others find it amusing to end.

 

“I know.” Grantaire replies softly, his eyes totally fixed on Enjolras.

 

Enjolras harrumphs. “Just don’t distract me, okay?”

 

Grantaire nods, and pulls out his sketchbook and a small palette of watercolours from his satchel. This is another one of his quirks, too. Though often content to draw the crudest of caricatures in whatever medium he can find – leaky pens, burnt matches, a thumbnail dipped in wine – he is also surprisingly adept with watercolours. Even Feuilly, their resident artist, admits that watercolours take more skill than he possesses, necessitating a change in style to match the watery paints. Enjolras must admit, though Grantaire does not possess so much as a scrap of vision for the future, he has skill.

 

For a while there was just the sound of Grantaire’s paintbrush slipping over thick paper and of Enjolras’ highlighter dragging across the page. Enjolras isn’t sure when it happens, but eventually, he finds himself tracking Grantaire’s hand as it manipulates the brush, and following the ribbons of colour unfolding behind it. His eyes zero in on the muscles shifting under pale skin, watching with fascinated silence.

 

“Are you okay?” Grantaire asks abruptly. Enjolras snaps out of his stupor, and looked up at Grantaire. His breath left him in a woosh, because _dear lord_ , his eyes were _blue_. And they were entirely focused on Enjolras.

 

“Fine.” Enjolras breaths out. “Absolutely fine. Just tired.”

 

“Right, sure.” The look on Grantaire’s face suggests he doesn’t believe the blonde man, but Grantaire doesn’t believe in anything, so Enjolras pays it no mind.

 

Enjolras nods. “Yes, tired. So I’m going to go home. To sleep.”

 

Grantaire worries his lip between his teeth, unsure if he should say something. Enjolras, strangely, feels his mouth go dry at the sight. Before he can ponder on it further, he is out of his seat, facing away from Grantaire and his infuriating hands.

 

He waves goodbye to the sea of confused faces in front of him, and rushes outside as quick as he could. It takes him the entire twenty minute walk home to stop his heart from racing.

 

Enjolras didn’t lie, he _was_ tired, and he welcomed the softness of his bed when he got into his room. He was asleep by the time Combeferre and Courfeyrac got home, ensconced in dreams and a soft duvet.

 

~~~

 

Enjolras wakes up with a start, bed rocking slightly with the force of it. He feels like his chest was housing a war drum, his ribs vibrating along with his pulse. He gingerly drew his legs up, and then he felt it – the hot, stickiness in his boxer briefs.

 

_Warm, wet kisses running up his leg. The thrill of nails down his sides. Teeth at his pulse point, feeling each jump of blood. Fingers tickling the back of his knee._

 

He feels his stomach turn uncomfortably as he changes into a clean pair of boxers, trying not to think too hard about what had apparently just happened, and exactly what he was covering up with his boxers. He lies back in bed, but as soon as his eyelids slip shut, he is attacked with an onslaught of images.

 

_Probing tongues and nimble fingers. Charcoal marking the soft curves of his hips. Eyes staring up from him, a chest heaving, and blue, blue, blue._

 

He gets out of bed, scrubbing his eyes in an attempt to remove the images burned behind his eyelids. The cool floor is a shock as he pads down the hall until he is standing at the door to Courfeyrac’s room. The nighttime air helps to bring his red face to it’s normal tone.

 

He quietly slips into Courfeyrac’s bed, and fits himself around the other man. Courfeyrac stirs, and turned around to face Enjolras. He lays a sleepy kiss onto Enjolras’ lips.

 

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, voice scratchy with sleep.

 

Enjolras nuzzles into Courfeyrac’s face, stubble rough on his nose. “I…” he coughs, awkwardly. “I had a dream.” Immediately afterwards, he self-consciously tucks his face into Courfeyrac’s neck, and mumbles out; “A sex dream.”

 

Courfeyrac, unable to look at Enjolras’ face, settles himself with running his fingers through his friend’s hair for a while, before prompting; “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Enjolras bites his lip, thinking it over. It’s not awkward, anymore, talking about his body with Courfeyrac or Combeferre. He is just acutely aware of how much he is going to hurt if he rips the scabs off these wounds. He nods, though, and pulls himself out from under Courfeyrac’s chin.

 

“There was – a man. He… and we slept together. And I… After…” Enjolras squeezes his knees together, not wanting to say it aloud.

 

“Wet dream?” Courfeyrac asks, hands running through Enjolras’ hair again.

 

Enjolras nods, head knocking against Courfeyrac’s chest. He feels his eyes sting with tears. “This isn’t supposed to happen!”  He stresses, voice embarassingly thick. “I’m not meant to have to deal with this. It was the only good thing about being asexual.” Enjolras curls further into himself, and growls. “I never want to think about _down there_ again.”

 

Courfeyrac kissed his friend’s hair, hands moving to rub down his back. “It’s okay. It’s alright. Your body does this sometimes.”

 

Enjolras shakes his head fervently and squeezes his eyes against the tears. Even so, Courfeyrac hears them in his voice. “No, it’s not that simple. I _liked_ it. I wanted it and I’m not supposed to.” He huffs out a small laugh, breath warm against Courfeyrac’s cheek. “Hell, I still want it. I feel so _stupid_.”

 

“Hey, listen here.” Courfeyrac demands, pulling Enjolras’ face up so their noses touch. “Being asexual doesn’t mean you ‘have to’ anything. The minute a label starts to make you feel bad about yourself is the minute you should stop using it. You understand?”

 

Enjolras frowns, but nods, their noses bumping together with the movement.

 

He sighs, and felt himself relax. There is still an itch at the back of his mind, though, and he knows he hasn’t revealed everything. “The dream…” he murmurs, and Courfeyrac shifts back so he can focus on Enjolras properly. “It was about Grantaire.”

 

Courfeyrac covers his surprise with a long breath, which Enjolras appreciates more than he can say, before shaking his head. “Doesn’t mean anything, Enj.” He says, running his hands through Enjolras’ hair a final time.

 

Enjolras tucks himself into Courfeyrac’s chest. There is silence for some time as his breathing evens out.

 

“Thank you.” He whispers finally.

 

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Courfeyrac asks, knowing the answer. Enjolras doesn’t bother to say anything, simply curling further into Courfeyrac’s arms. It doesn’t take long before they were both asleep.

 

~~~

 

That morning, Enjolras and Courfeyrac both tell Combeferre about the night before. Combeferre doesn’t say anything, just nods and listens.

 

When they are done, Combeferre grabs Enjolras’ small hands, and makes sure the long haired man is looking directly into his eyes.

 

“It’s alright, okay?” Combeferre insists, after a few moments of silent communication between the two. “This is okay.”

 

“Yes,” Enjolras nods, voice calm. “I am.”

 

Comeferre lays a quick, friendly press of lips to Enjolras’ knuckles, and lets go, going back to his newspaper. Not making eye contact, he asks, offhanded in a way that only Combeferre can manage; “Just a question; Do you like Grantaire? Romantically?”

 

Enjolras almost spits out his coffee, and can barely sputter out a fervent denial before Combeferre nods to himself. “That’s a yes, then.”

 

~~~

 

That evening, at the meeting, when Grantaire and Enjolras are arguing over whether asexual representation in the media is even possible, Combeferre speaks up.

 

“Demisexual representation is even harder, to make sure it isn’t just seen as a heteronormative sexuality.” He interjects. “I think we forget about demisexuals, because we don’t have any here.” At this, Combeferre looks at Enjolras, and the suggestion is clear.

 

Enjolras is caught off guard for a moment, surprised by Combeferre’s implication. Then, he remembers Combeferre’s words from the morning, and somehow it makes sense.

 

“Yes, we do.” Enjolras replies, voice strong, mouth twitching into a smile.

 

Combeferre’s smile was small, just for the two of them, but it was undoubtedly there. “Yes,” he agreed. “I guess we do.”


End file.
